


Commitment

by tastewithouttalent



Series: Understanding [9]
Category: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Genre: Awkward First Times, Commitment, Established Relationship, First Time, Fluff and Smut, Love Confessions, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-03
Updated: 2014-12-03
Packaged: 2018-02-27 19:24:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2703665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Gokudera can see when Yamamoto's eyes flicker into recognition of his features, the way his smile melts a little at the corners to become bone-deep sincerity instead of his usual generic happiness." Gokudera has a confession, and a request, and Yamamoto agrees to both.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Commitment

It’s still early when Gokudera knocks on Yamamoto’s door. They came straight back from the baseball game, barely staying long enough for Yamamoto to wave and flash a smile at his first-year protegees before returning to the base, but Yamamoto headed for his room right away. Gokudera is fairly sure he’d be welcome to follow, doesn’t feel the need to ask every time like Yamamoto inexplicably does, but he’s been turning an idea over in his head for a while, now, and he needs a few minutes alone to steady the thrum of anticipation in his nerves. There’s no risk that delay will mean he’s not going to follow through -- it’s too settled into his mind, like a dare to himself he can’t back down from.

Besides, it’s a good day for commitment.

Yamamoto pulls the door open before Gokudera has time to panic at all. He’s smiling in welcome before he even sees who his visitor is; Gokudera can see when his eyes flicker into recognition of his features, the way his smile melts a little at the corners to become bone-deep sincerity instead of his usual generic happiness.

“Gokudera.” He sounds surprised, delighted as if he hasn’t seen the other in a week instead of thirty minutes at the most.

“Hey,” Gokudera says, and that’s as far as he gets before he has to look away from the affection in Yamamoto’s face. It’s hard to see Yamamoto looking at him at the best of times; right now, with his proposition burning under his tongue, he doesn’t stand a chance against the flush that climbs into his cheeks. “Can I come in?”

“Sure,” Yamamoto says, moving to hold the door wide. Gokudera steps inside without looking at him, reaches out to pull the door from Yamamoto’s hold and push it shut behind him. Yamamoto lets him drag the weight from his hand, doesn’t voice any trace of curiosity or confusion; when Gokudera manages to glance up from the shadowed cover of his hair, the other boy is just watching him, his head tipped very slightly to the side and his mouth so soft on warmth that even his smile has faded. Gokudera wants to kiss him, wants to steal the easy comfort in the slouch of his shoulders and the simple affection in his eyes until the twists and tangles of his own thoughts smooth out into straight lines. But he can’t unfold the knot of anxiety at his spine, the pressure of unspoken words on the back of his tongue, and now that he’s here he’s really starting to regret this decision, now that it’s too late to reasonably go back.

Some part of his tension must be evident to Yamamoto; he’s usually a little quicker to initiate contact, even if he is always tentative and careful with the first touch. This time he’s not reaching for Gokudera’s hand or hair or shoulder, just lets his hands hang at his sides where Gokudera’s gaze has stalled out. They’re both still and silent for a minute, so long Gokudera can feel the discomfort of self-consciousness settling at the back of his neck; then Yamamoto says, “Gokudera?” as easily as if they haven’t been standing in silence since Gokudera came into the room. “Are you okay?”

Gokudera doesn’t have a good introduction to what he needs to say. He has the middle, maybe the shape of an end on the horizon, but without a beginning there’s nowhere to smoothly start.

He goes with the middle, instead.

“You have to know.” He’s not looking at Yamamoto’s face, can’t trust himself to keep talking if he can see the gentle focus in the other boy’s expression. “How I.” This is harder than he expected; even talking around the subject he can feel his throat closing up with hot embarrassment. “How I feel about you.” He coughs sharply, clears his throat as if there’s something there other than his own painful self-consciousness. “Right?”

He does look up, then. He has to, has to try for this desperate hope that Yamamoto will for once understand what he’s saying without Gokudera having to spell out the words. But the other boy is just staring at him, his eyes wide and blank of any miraculous intuition, and some manic energy grips Gokudera’s thoughts and pushes the words past lips numb with panic.

“Because I like you.” Gokudera can’t even recognize his own voice, it sounds so strained. He clears his throat but that doesn’t help, it just feels like he’s choking on air. “Okay?”

Yamamoto’s eyes are wide, shocked like he’s forgotten how to speak, his lips barely parted on a soundless response. It’s  _stupid_ , there’s no  _way_  he can  _not know_  after weeks of rushed kisses in quiet corners and the constant anxious press of fingers to wrists whenever they are away from others, but still Gokudera isn’t surprised to see the light of novel understanding spread over Yamamoto’s face like the sunrise.

“Really?” He  _is_  reaching out now, fingers stretching for the inside curve of Gokudera’s elbow, but Gokudera moves faster, grabs too-tight at the other boy’s wrist to stop the motion and seizes a handful of his shirt for good measure.

“Of course I do, you  _idiot_ ” and he comes up on his toes, drags Yamamoto down and presses the soft surprise at the other’s lips into understanding under his own. Yamamoto makes the tiny sighing sound he always does, like he’s letting some carefully stored tension ease away, and he’s tipping in closer to return the kiss before his free hand has made it up to Gokudera’s hair. A pair of fingers presses in against the back of the other boy’s neck, Yamamoto’s touch skating just under his collar, and usually this would be the point where Gokudera lets the heat of pleasure in his blood take over.

This time he pulls back, words surging too strong on his tongue to be ignored. “You really thought I  _didn’t like you_?”

“What?” Yamamoto sounds dazed, lost and detached from the thread of the conversation. He’s watching Gokudera’s mouth instead of his eyes. “I dunno.” His eyelashes shift dark over his gaze, one shoulder pulls up in a shrug. “I wasn’t sure.”

“God,” Gokudera huffs, “You really are an idiot.”

Yamamoto blinks, his gaze coming back into focus for a moment before his lips curve into a smile so wide it crinkles at the corners of his eyes. “Guess so.”

“Are you sure  _now_?” Gokudera asks. The words come out snapping with irritation but Yamamoto’s fingers are still at the back of his neck, he’s still leaning in to reach instinctively for the shape of the other’s smile.

“Yeah,” Yamamoto says, smiling so wide it’s hard for Gokudera to kiss him. He settles for the corner of the other boy’s mouth instead, the soft crease of joy pressed into his skin, and Yamamoto shivers, lets his eyes shut and turns his head in for more.

It’s enough, for a minute. Yamamoto’s touch is steady and gentle, his fingers soothing without urging for more, but Gokudera’s fist is drawing tighter, his motions going jerky with anxious want for more.

Gokudera pulls back first, but Yamamoto is the one who speaks, like he’s catching Gokudera’s words directly off the heat of his tongue. “Do you want --”

“The bed,” Gokudera finishes before Yamamoto can compose the rest of the question. He steps backwards without turning, drags Yamamoto in his wake so the other boy has to stumble to catch up. He’s leaning in anyway, his usual careful restraint failing so when Gokudera hesitates a step Yamamoto tips in too far, crushes a kiss against his lower lip before they both manage to cross the remaining distance without breaking apart. It’s Gokudera who kicks the edge of the bed first, but Yamamoto doesn’t resist when the other drags him sideways by his shirt, twists their positions so he can shove and topple Yamamoto’s balance over the mattress instead of the floor. Even his fall is easy, relaxed and lacking any of the panic Gokudera half-expects; he just collapses back over the sheets, blinking up at Gokudera with his mouth still so soft it speaks more of his pleasure than a smile would.

Gokudera moves before the affection in Yamamoto’s face can freeze him in place, before his adrenaline has time to lock him into indecision. Yamamoto sits up to meet him as he climbs onto the bed to straddle the other boy’s legs, turning his head up for a kiss before Gokudera replaces his grip on the much-abused t-shirt to pin him back down to the bed. He can feel Yamamoto’s laugh against his lips and the purr of sound in the other boy’s shoulders as his fingers relax to press against Yamamoto’s chest instead of drag at his shirt. Tipped forward gravity doed half the work for him; all Gokudera has to do is let himself relax and he fits against Yamamoto from hip to shoulder, so close he can feel where the other boy’s shirt is riding up at his hip.

Gokudera touches his fingers to the triangle of bare skin, turning his head to scrape his teeth against the corner of Yamamoto’s mouth so he doesn’t miss the tiny choked inhale of reaction at the contact. When he looks up Yamamoto’s eyes are shut, his mouth open and his throat working around the effort of keeping his breathing steady. Gokudera’s gaze drops to that reflexive motion above the other’s collar, is staring at the pattern of the other’s breathing with his fingers stalled still on skin when he blurts, “I want.”

Yamamoto blinks, swallows, brings his eyes into focus on Gokudera’s face with a visible effort. “Gokudera?”

Gokudera’s teeth catch at his lip, grind pressure up to the point of pain into the skin without conscious effort on his part. When he moves his hand it’s too fast, jerky with desperation, but Yamamoto’s expression flickers out-of-focus, his eyes drift into the melting soft of pleasure Gokudera never sees enough of as the other boy’s fingers shove his shirt up high across his skin. Gokudera’s breathing harder himself but the rush of air in his lungs barely registers; he’s too trapped by the part of Yamamoto’s lips and the shivery pant as his inhales fall into sync with Gokudera’s touch. His skin is warm to the touch and flushing hotter when Gokudera lets his touch linger, the heat so tangible Gokudera knows Yamamoto’s skin is going pink under his fingers without having to look.

“I want you,” he manages, and that doesn’t  _help_  but he has the admission started, now, and Yamamoto is refocusing his gaze on Gokudera’s face and the liquid heat in his eyes is enough draw alone to pull the rest of the words from the other’s lips. “Like.” He swallows, takes a breath while Yamamoto watches him from his position spread out glowing and willing on the bed. “Sex.”

Gokudera is flushing before he even gets the word out, his cheeks burning so hot even the temptation of Yamamoto’s expression isn’t enough to keep him sustaining eye contact. His fingers tense with panic, the short edge of his fingernails scraping friction against Yamamoto’s skin, and he’s just opening his mouth to take it back, pushing against the bed to sit up and away when fingers touch the back of his neck, Yamamoto interlacing both his hands to hold Gokudera in place.

“Yeah.” He’s pulling himself up to kiss Gokudera’s mouth, a quick burst of warmth; Gokudera can feel the tension of the position under his fingertips but the kiss is soft, gentle and careful as Yamamoto always is before it dissolves into a laugh more delighted than amused. “I want to have sex with you too.”

Gokudera’s blush goes darker on contact with the words, his breathing sticking sharp in his throat and turning into a growl of embarrassment. Yamamoto just laughs against his mouth, keeps laughing even when Gokudera shoves him back down to the mattress.

“ _God_ ,” he hisses, but his hand is still pushing over the other boy’s skin, mapping out the lines of his chest and making Yamamoto’s eyelashes flutter again. “How can you just  _say_  that?” He’s snapping the words, they sound angry enough in his head, but his voice is shaking with anticipation and panic in equal parts so the sound is trembling as badly as his touch.

“You did first,” Yamamoto points out. He sighs, a faint hum of satisfaction as Gokudera’s palm skims across his skin; his shirt is pushed high off his skin, barely covering anything but his shoulders now. He looks like he’s glowing gold under Gokudera’s touch, looks warm and alive and real in comparison with Gokudera’s too-pale fingers.

“Shut up,” Gokudera growls, curls his thumb around the folds of rumpled shirt. “Sit up.”

Yamamoto does as told, still smiling with more warmth than any one person should be in possession of; Gokudera drags the shirt up over his head, tugs it off over Yamamoto’s arm while the other is still trying to get his elbow up and out of the way. Yamamoto slides his other wrist free, looking entirely unfazed by the amount of skin he’s baring, and Gokudera shrugs out of his jacket, tosses it sideways before Yamamoto has yet collected himself enough to grab at the bottom of his sweater. He lifts his arms, Yamamoto pushes at the fabric, and the whole thing inverts, ruffling Gokudera’s hair into disarray as it slides over his head and briefly catching at the cord around his neck before the jewelry slides free along with the sweater.

The room isn’t as warm as it felt originally -- the air is chilled enough that Gokudera’s skin pulls tight and cringing from the temperature, a tremor of discomfort running through him before he can try to hide it. But Yamamoto is letting his sweater fall to the floor, reaching out to press his hands flat against Gokudera’s shoulders and pull him back down, and then there’s so much skin against his Gokudera forgets all about being cold. Yamamoto is dragging at his shoulders to urge him closer, opening his mouth almost before Gokudera can kiss him again, and his lips are warm and his tongue is warmer. Gokudera’s arm is pinned between them; he twists his wrist, slides his fingers down past the edge of skin and against their remaining clothes. Yamamoto is rocking up in anticipation of his movement before Gokudera even has his fingers against his jeans, humming wordless appreciation in advance of the other boy’s hand pressing in against his zipper. Yamamoto’s pressed hard against the denim, so warm Gokudera can feel the heat even through the weight of the fabric; he presses his palm in, slides the friction of his hand in against the shape of the other boy. Yamamoto shudders against his mouth, his fingers clutching against Gokudera’s shoulder for a moment before he eases his hold so he can drag his hand down across the other boy’s skin in echo of Gokudera’s own movement. He’s more gentle about the press of his hand, his wrist a little more careful than Gokudera’s, but the friction is still enough to flood Gokudera’s blood with warmth, to distract him from the grace of kissing so he has to drop his head to Yamamoto’s shoulder instead, press his lips flat to the other boy’s collarbone to stall the whimper that begs in his throat. He’s still pressing against Yamamoto’s jeans, though, maneuvering his thumb until he can catch at the other boy’s button and slide it free of the denim. Yamamoto arches up the tiny distance he can manage, rocks against Gokudera’s palm and the inside line of his thigh before Gokudera can press him back down to the sheets and tug his zipper down. There’s a fumble of hands, Gokudera leaning in hard against Yamamoto so he can shove at the other boy’s pants; then he has to pull away, drag himself away from the press of Yamamoto’s palm and the draw of his skin to slide back across the bed and drag the other boy’s clothes off his legs. Yamamoto arches off the bed helpfully, falls back so he can lift his feet and kick his clothing off entirely. Gokudera tosses the jeans to join their shirts on the floor and Yamamoto shifts, lets his legs spread wide so Gokudera’s eyes are caught by the inherent offer of the position. His cheeks flare sunburn hot and it’s too much, he can’t look down at Yamamoto spread out for him and keep any shred of the coherency he needs.

“Turn over,” he says, drawing back to the end of the bed like he’s retreating from a battlefield. He has to drag the bottle of lube out of his pocket anyway, has to control the tremble in his hands enough to manage the movement while Yamamoto swallows visibly and rolls over to press his face to the sheets. Gokudera’s hands go still for a moment; he can’t see Yamamoto’s face anymore but now there’s the smooth curve of the other’s spine laid out in front of him, he can see the tremble of Yamamoto’s breathing in the tiny movement of his shoulders and the tension in his legs. At least he doesn’t have anyone to see the way his mouth comes open on a soundless whine, the way his cheeks flush hot before he turns his attention down to the bottle in his hand. He tugs his rings off, leaving his fingers feeling strangely bare for a moment as the jewelry falls and rings off-key notes against the floor; then he’s opening the bottle with more force than is necessary, spilling far more liquid than he needs over his skin before he can control the nervous shake in his hands. Yamamoto is turning his head, taking a careful breath of air, but he’s not looking at Gokudera; his eyes are out-of-focus, gazing unseeing at the plain white of the wall in front of him.

He shivers when Gokudera touches him. Yamamoto’s skin is soft, tanned gold and as warm as if sunlight is lingering in the smooth color under Gokudera’s hand, but the tremble of reaction takes all his tension with it, leaves him sprawled boneless and unresisting for whatever Gokudera wants to do to him. Neither of them speak, Gokudera because his throat is too tight with anticipation and Yamamoto because he looks like he’s forgotten the use of language, like his mouth is made only for kissing and little wordless noises of encouragement.

Gokudera moves slowly. He can barely breathe for fear of doing something wrong, terrified of moving too fast and shattering the weird unspoken peace hovering between them by accidentally hurting Yamamoto. It’s hard even to brace himself to push with just one slick finger, and then when he does he’s barely inside before he can’t breathe, he can’t even remember how to move his hand. Yamamoto is barely breathing faster but he’s so  _warm_ , his skin is flushed but he’s  _burning_  inside, the heat is radiating out from him personally instead of some sun-stolen flush. And he’s tight, Gokudera was expecting that, a little, but it’s almost painful with just one finger, there’s no way he’s ever going to fit.

“Gokudera?” Yamamoto asks, and Gokudera blinks hard, looks up at the other boy’s face. He still looks calm, heat-hazed and more contemplative than in pain as Gokudera feared. There’s no trace of panic in his voice, either, even though Gokudera’s heart is hammering against his chest until he can barely breathe.

There’s no way he’s going to admit that to Yamamoto, though. “Yeah,” he says, and pushes in deeper. Yamamoto gasps a half-breath of air and Gokudera nearly jerks away before he remembers to go slow, before he takes a breath enough to realize that Yamamoto looks okay, still, that it’s not pain in his expression as much as curiosity.

“You okay?” Gokudera intended that to sound casual and unconcerned; it comes out strained, grating with audible evidence of his nerves, but Yamamoto doesn’t comment, doesn’t even glance back at him.

“Yeah.” He shifts his weight and Gokudera nearly pulls away again; he can feel the tiny movement of Yamamoto’s hips around his fingers, telegraphed directly to his senses. A small part of him recoils from the idea, terrified backtracking from the intimacy of the thought, but the far greater part is purring, drawing him hotter and harder than he can ever remember being against the front of his jeans. He takes an anxious breath, blinks back into focus on the easy sweep of Yamamoto’s shoulders, and when he moves his hand he’s not listening to the panic at all. His heart is still pounding chokingly fast, his thoughts are still scrambling instructions at him, but the motion of his hand is at some impossible distance from that, obeying the shudder of response he can see in Yamamoto’s shoulders and hear in Yamamoto’s breathing rather than checking in with Gokudera’s over-thought plans first. It’s terrifying to trust the instinct Gokudera has never relied on before, but he lacks the experience to find a better checkpoint, and whatever he is doing some part of it seems right. Yamamoto isn’t jerking away, isn’t hissing in pain or flinching back, and as Gokudera keeps moving he can feel the other boy relax against the pressure of his finger.

“Yamamoto,” and he’s shaking again, his voice sounds breathy and laced over with the adrenaline he is trying to hide. “I’m gonna do another.”

Yamamoto nods agreement. “Okay.” He still sounds unfairly calm, like this isn’t a big deal, like Gokudera can’t feel every tremor of his body responding to the other boy’s movements. Gokudera huffs frustration, the comfort of familiar frustration curling through his veins, but when he draws his hand back his motions are still slow, just as careful as the first time, and Yamamoto doesn’t flinch at the pressure. It  _must_  be uncomfortable, Gokudera can feel all that first-wave tension against him again and what is tight for him must be a stretch for Yamamoto. But the other boy is lying still and mostly-relaxed, only the slight speed of his breathing a giveaway for his reaction, and that helps take the edge off Gokudera’s worry.

Gokudera pauses once he’s got both fingers inside Yamamoto, partially so Yamamoto can adjust and partially so he can catch his own breath. He’s flushed hot all over his face, the heat is burning over his collarbones and across his shoulders until he’s sure he’s red with sensation and self-consciousness in equal parts.

“Still fine?” That has more of the gruff edge he wants, sounds a little more like he doesn’t care that Yamamoto is the warmest thing he’s ever touched and that his blood is evaporating to steam under his skin. Then Yamamoto smiles, the bright flash of delight Gokudera knows so well, and all Gokudera’s resistance crumbles to dust even before he says, “Yeah, Gokudera, I’m fine.”

“Alright.” Gokudera sounds shattered, there’s no way for him to put his voice back together now. “I’m gonna move.” He suits actions to words, easing back and pressing in again, and Yamamoto is still gazing at the wall and still relaxed across the sheets and the pressure around Gokudera’s fingers is easing with every gentle thrust of his hand. After a minute he chances turning his hand, slides his fingers slightly apart; Yamamoto’s breathing catches for a moment, but it evens out before Gokudera can more than hesitate in the rhythm of his movements. After a pause he resumes again without asking for confirmation; Yamamoto is still smiling faintly, like he’s forgotten to smooth his expression into neutrality, and that is reassurance enough to overcome the brief catch of worry.

Gokudera’s heart is still pounding, adrenaline still hot and surging in his blood, but it’s less panic, now, more anticipation and hope so intense that disappointment feels inevitable. But they’ve made it this far, he has Yamamoto warm and pliant in front of him and he can almost feel the other boy’s breathing against his fingers, and he’s just starting to wonder how long he  _should_  continue when Yamamoto takes a breath and shifts his hips and says, “You can try now, if you want.”

It’s not really all that suggestive, even in context; given where Gokudera is touching it’s hardly even a step up from what they’re doing. But hearing the clear sound of Yamamoto’s voice on the words tightens Gokudera’s chest, shoves the entire experience out of the realm of fantasy and into reality so he can feel his stomach drop like gravity has suddenly fallen out from under his feet.

“Yeah.” He pulls his hand back, faster than he intended and faster than he should, but Yamamoto doesn’t complain; he just pushes up on his elbow, twists at his waist so he can look back as Gokudera reaches for the front of his pants. Their eyes meet for a hummingbird-fast heartbeat; then Gokudera has to look away, coughing around the air he suddenly can’t get as his cheeks stain crimson and hot. It has no effect at all on how hard he is; if anything the unflinching trust in Yamamoto’s eyes makes it  _worse_ , fumbles Gokudera’s hands when he really wants nothing as much as to get his pants off as rapidly as possible. Even with his movements awkward and clumsy, it doesn’t take more than a few seconds to get his jeans open. Then he’s almost there, there’s just another brief delay while he shoves the fabric off his hips and drops to sit next to Yamamoto so he can push them off his legs.

It’s strangely easier once the fabric is off; there’s nothing left to even think about hiding at that point. Yamamoto can see the flush of pink all across Gokudera’s skin, the evidence of his interest utterly pointless to even attempt to hide. And he’s not retreating, not even blushing with self-consciousness; when Gokudera risks a glance Yamamoto’s eyes are hotter even than they were, his lips parted on his breathing like he’s forgotten about his expression entirely, and the color in his cheeks is definitely not embarrassment. It’s his mouth that confirms it, the soft unthinking pout of want that gives Gokudera the self-confidence he needs to act.

“Okay.” His voice isn’t shaking, anymore. His fingers are slick when he strokes carefully over himself, lacking the familiar comfort of their usual friction, but he’s not thinking of that, he’s already a minute ahead, already lighting up with expectation. Yamamoto shifts his legs a little wider as Gokudera fits his knees between the other boy’s, arches up an inch before Gokudera has even touched his hip. He’s still startlingly warm on Gokudera’s fingers but he’s starting to tremble a little, now, showing the first signs of nerves Gokudera has seen from him all night. Gokudera has gone right past nerves and out the other side into calm, a sense of inevitability settling over him so even though his breathing is nearly panting his hands are steady.

He thinks about offering some kind of warning, some announcement or suggestion or indication that he’s going to move. But Yamamoto’s shoulders are tense with expectation already, Gokudera’s close enough he can hear the other boy’s breathing catching hot on the sheets, and in the end he doesn’t have the words anyway. He rocks forward instead until his cock bumps radiant-warm skin, and Yamamoto relaxes at the contact, like the comfort of touch is soothing away whatever unusual anxiety has collected under his skin. So Gokudera tips in close over Yamamoto’s spine, lets his gaze focus on the shift of shoulderblade under the other boy’s skin, and starts to push forward as slowly as he can.

Yamamoto makes some sound as Gokudera slides into him, a high little gasp, but his reaction is drowned out by the groan that Gokudera doesn’t realize he’s going to make. Yamamoto is so tight it’s like an ache of sensation under Gokudera’s skin, so hot it’s almost too much, it’s on the edge of too much and absolutely not enough at once.

Gokudera stops moving, tries to loosen the unconsciously tight hold he has at Yamamoto’s hip while he catches his breath. “You okay?” he manages; he can’t look at Yamamoto’s face, can’t do anything but stare at the other boy’s skin and hover in suspension waiting for agreement.

“Keep going,” Yamamoto says, and that’s not really an answer but that is what Gokudera wanted to hear. He shifts his knees, steadies his weight, starts to slowly slide forward again. Yamamoto whimpers again, but this time Gokudera has his lips shut on whatever sound his throat might decide to make and he can hear that it’s not really  _pain_  in the other’s voice as much as involuntary response, like Gokudera is forcing the sound out of him with his movements. The idea sparks under his skin and sets his blood on fire; he’s still open-mouthed on trying to catch his breath from that when he sinks in the last inch into the other boy.

He pauses for a moment. For a minute Gokudera is sure neither of them is breathing; Yamamoto’s eyes are shut now, his forehead creased like he’s concentrating very hard on something. Gokudera doesn’t mean to lean in closer before he’s there, curled in so close he could kiss Yamamoto’s shoulder, if he wanted.

“I’m gonna move,” he says, almost whispering the words. Yamamoto nods without opening his eyes, shifts his weight on the bed; the motion burns Gokudera’s rationality away, leaves him staring gasping and unseeing at the dark of Yamamoto’s eyelashes as he pulls back, eases forward again. He doesn’t have to think about going slowly; the sensation is so close to too much he’s more afraid of going quickly than anything else. It’s enough to draw the friction almost-infinite as he moves, the heat collecting slowly instead of building to a crescendo. After a moment his vision clears enough to focus on the other boy’s expression, the tangle of his hair against his forehead and the unthinking softness of his parted lips. There’s something there, some meaning at his mouth or collected in his forehead, but Gokudera can’t piece it together, can’t see enough of Yamamoto’s expression to properly read his reaction. He stares for a minute, reaching for the information he is yet missing; then he rocks forward at a different angle, and Yamamoto jerks with some new reaction, and Gokudera snaps to a decision.

“Wait.” He’s pushing back, pulling away before Yamamoto has even opened his eyes and twisted to watch him.

“What? Why?” His eyes are half-lidded, his mouth soft and bruised-pink, and Gokudera is  _certain_  this was a good idea even before he pushes at Yamamoto’s hip.

“Turn over,” he orders, his tongue borrowing unconscious command. “I want to see your face.”

Yamamoto stares at him for a moment, his cheeks darkening like Gokudera’s words are pulling blood visible to the surface; then he moves all at once, twisting onto his back so fast he nearly falls off the bed before he can slides back to more or less the center of the sheets. He’s hard without Gokudera even having touched him, there’s a tiny slick of liquid drawing sticky between the head of his cock and the flat of his stomach. It’s a distraction but not enough, not when he’s angling his legs wider in offering and Gokudera is pushing his hips up slightly off the bed to improve the angle. Yamamoto is half-sitting up as Gokudera comes in closer to fit himself back in, his back curled in like he can’t bear to be at any distance at all from the other boy. Gokudera lifts his head as he gets his position right; he only intends to watch Yamamoto’s eyes but the other is closer than he expects, closing the distance between their mouths so Gokudera’s lips are pressed to his as he starts to slide back into the other boy. Yamamoto sighs a trembling sound against Gokudera’s mouth, Gokudera can feel the vibration shudder on his tongue, and they both move without speaking, Yamamoto falling back onto the bed and Gokudera toppling in over him. With the length of Yamamoto’s legs hooked around his waist the difference in their height is gone; Gokudera doesn’t have to reach to kiss the soft of Yamamoto’s mouth, doesn’t have to tip his head back to watch the melting gold of the other’s eyes. It’s a better angle for moving, too; Yamamoto’s hips are tipped up a little higher than is probably quite comfortable for him, but Gokudera can brace against the bed with one arm and rock his hips forward with the smooth promise of a steady rhythm, and after a moment Yamamoto gets his heel braced at Gokudera’s back to pull the other in closer and tip himself closer at once until Gokudera isn’t sure which of them is setting the pace.

They pull away from kissing for a moment, both breathing so hard Gokudera thinks they’d be in some danger of passing out if they kept going. Yamamoto’s cheeks are flushed high with sensation, one hand braced at Gokudera’s shoulder and the other digging into silver hair, and his eyes are focused in on Gokudera’s mouth like he’s incapable of looking anywhere else. Gokudera gulps air, rocks forward as far as he can go, and while Yamamoto is trembling with the sensation he gets his free hand down between them to wrap his fingers around the other boy’s cock.

Yamamoto’s head tips back, the movement reflexive reaction as much as the purring moan that spills up from his throat, and Gokudera leans in with as little thought to press his mouth against the smooth line of Yamamoto’s throat. He can taste salt on his tongue and vibration on his lips, Yamamoto is hard under his fingers and hot around him, and when he strokes up over the other’s length he can feel the shudder of response against him as clearly as he can feel it under his lips. Gokudera’s humming pleasure without deliberation, his mouth coming open to gasp for breath around a groan of encouragement, and Yamamoto is so warm that he feels like he’s melting around Gokudera, like he’s trembling himself out of existence and into just a single sustained note of pleasure.

Gokudera strokes up over Yamamoto’s length again. It’s not a particularly smooth movement; his fingers are unsteady, his wrist shaking, and it’s all out-of-order with the unconscious motion of his hips as he keeps thrusting into the other boy, but he can still hear Yamamoto’s breath hitch with the telltale sound of restraint giving way. Gokudera pulls back enough to see Yamamoto’s face, moves his hand once more, not even sure if he’s stroking or just touching, now, and Yamamoto’s expression drops out of focus and into open-mouthed pleasure. His cheeks flush darker, he makes a tiny gasping sound like he can’t remember how to breathe, and then he’s coming over Gokudera’s fingers and drawing tight around Gokudera’s cock, and it’s too much all at once. Gokudera isn’t even sure he keeps moving his hand to draw Yamamoto through the last of his orgasm; his awareness fades away all at once, all his sense of self evaporating until he doesn’t even hear what sound he makes as the pleasure hits him. There’s just heat, sensation rippling out into every corner of his body as satisfaction washes over his head and pulls him under.

He’s shaking when he thinks to blink again, when he realizes he’s breathing against the side of Yamamoto’s neck and has his forehead pressed into Yamamoto’s hair. There’s an arm wrapped around his shoulders, Yamamoto holding him close enough to forestall any idea Gokudera might have of rolling away too quickly.

Gokudera is overheated, his skin sticky with sweat and lube and come all together, and from how hard he’s breathing Yamamoto is no better than he is. But when he lifts his head to see the other boy’s face Yamamoto is watching him with his eyes as soft as Gokudera has ever seen them, like Gokudera is the only thing in the world worth watching. Gokudera can feel his face go warm under that gaze, silent protest at the implication in Yamamoto’s expression, but when he looks at Yamamoto’s mouth he has better things to do than voice a complaint.

He doesn’t realize he’s smiling until the tension at his lips makes kissing difficult, but by then Yamamoto has started to laugh warm and delighted, and for once Gokudera can’t muster even half-hearted frustration; there’s just heat and pleasure and joy surging bright in his thoughts.


End file.
